True love
by Ondine333
Summary: Arthur/Merlin or Merlin/Arthur, whatever rocks your boat. reincarnation drabble, reunion scene. Mostly it's just fluff. "Arthur isn't ever quite sure of what to say in those moments."


The Once and Future (preferably a very, very far future –being King sucks, in his opinion; even without the dragons there are still the assassins and, even worse, the _princesses_ to be worried about) King is trying –and failing –not to look stupid while licking ice cream of his fingers when he catch sight of his soul mate for the first time in his life. It's certainly not the most humiliating thing he's ever done in front of Merlin, but it's still quite awkward. They meet as teenagers, this time –they look to be the same age, thank God for small mercies –which means that Arthur's hormones are alive and kicking like two very drunk football (he _still_ refuses to call it soccer, damnit!) teams, and complexes are, even after everything he's been through, present. You'd think that going through puberty as much as he has, it would be all smooth and easy for him. You'd be wrong. He'd really hoped to look cool this time, and had instead been caught dripping food all over his clothes. Again.

He's busy cursing at himself in several languages when the other smiles at him –that ridiculous, brain-dead looking, amazing smile –and suddenly it doesn't matter what he was doing because, really, they've been together for centuries now, and that's not going to change because of ice cream. Clearly, idiocy is contagious; it's all Merlin's fault for making him worry.

Arthur is moving before he's even realized it, snack long forgotten and melting on the asphalt, running through the empty playground toward the dark haired boy. He looks quite alike his first incarnation this time, which is somewhat surprising. Oh, there's always a little familiar detail –most often his eyes or cheekbones –but now it's particularly close. Unfortunately, the ears aren't a part of it. Next time, maybe.

But he doesn't get to think past that, because he tackles the other teen with the force of a bulldozer, bringing them both to the ground. They look into each other eyes for a short while, then kiss like there is no tomorrow. It's cliché, definitely, but what does he care? They're together for the first time in _years_; he gets to be as much of a romantic moron as he wants.

And here they are, lying on the grass of this silly playground, clinging to each other like children in the dark. In a way, it's exactly what they are.

But then the moment passes, and they move away from the embrace –not too much though, not too far, never again, because all of their lives taught them some things– and just look, drink in the sight of new faces. It's awkward, sprawled in the middle of kids attractions, hoping they won't have to face any disapproving parents. The yellow grass itches, the sun makes them squint their eyes, they're both grinning like idiots. Arthur raises a hand, slowly, touches Merlin's cheekbone, his neck, his hand, an expression of wonder etched onto his face. He looks like somebody just told him he was actually the heir of some filthy rich celebrity. Then Merlin laughs, a little breathless, and rolls on his back, his side pressed against Arthur's. They're holding each other's hand. Neither of them knows how it happened.

Arthur isn't ever quite sure of what to say in those moments. For all the speeches he made, for all the solemn oaths he swore, all those sensational declarations throughout his lives, this part of their relationship has always eluded him. A number of sentences run through his mind, each one sounding more stupid than the other. "I missed you," is an evidence; "You're everything," definitely cheesy, "So, what's your name now?" would ruin the mood. He turns to Merlin, who has always been much better than him at that sort of things, and is now humming a song they danced to in the 16th century, his eyes closed. So he lies back down, looks at the clouds drifting far above their heads, thinking of the hand in his, of all the other afternoons they spent just like this, with the sun and the wind and an old melody for all company. He remembers then, that it doesn't matter when or where or who they are, because this is what they're coming back for. Not to change the world, not because of fate, but because they are simply too stubborn to give up the memories of happiness.

He remembers the story of Arthur and Guinevere (or is it Lancelot and Guinevere?), of Romeo and Juliet. And his smile turns mocking, just a little, because people speak of battles and glory and deaths, but he knows the truth. He knows that the really great stories aren't about speeches or grand promises. They're snatches of happiness, just like this; a hot drink under the stars, a quiet talk buried in a warm bed, an idiotic conversation after too much wine. And there are guts there. There's the memory of what it means, to lose it all, how far they would go and how far they have gone and feelings, so much of them sometimes he feels like bursting, but just end up squeezing the hand in his a little harder. And that's it. Nothing to say. A squeeze of a hand, thousands of memories, wind and sun and true love.


End file.
